[Scratches][Verse 1]Welcome to a piece of brain tissue, my brain's lungsFilled with octane like liquid it came fromSome silly, said her tits sellin illyReally? By the jar? Pump the car full of grey jellyCalled her Ronda, after I shit on the dashCause I can't stand hooked up on dustThe three manuveur so swiftly in and out of lootersThrough checkpoints with juice in stashed coolers2002, my album's played throughID on the window like it's fucking BeirutToo bad no planes flew into MTVI'll never get a platinum plaque for MP3Being blackballed by a white MC - PauseI guess that faggot found the right MDAnd I'm twisted but not like faggots that suck fameThis clown is saying I'm sicker with metal than mudvayneI train my following like a bitch modelinH is like a God and it won't stop hollerinFuck needing a TV to be a rockstarPunch a hole through Mark Wahlbergs chest and dent a copcarPut my brain in it, I wouldn't last a minuteScribble some shit in 30, I'm love like gimmicksSluts, cynics, ducks with dipped spinnageFuckin you up in the front row's good for image[Scratches][Verse 2]I gotta walk on, half feet in Harlem for a gorillaThat lost his family and want revenge on his killerClapped the poacher, fled the stomach of rap through and ulcerCovered in blood, eating with vulturesOff the chain and got a hook in his backskull to my feetBreastfeeding, moms was cooking up crackDrop me in a pot, cop in the spot, pistols gleaming in the sunLook son - I'm fistal fiendinNine to script with leading any malicious beatingsSpecially if feeled if the couples bitch is breedinSix is reading, bitterly grittyCaught a GTA charge before Liberty CityToo bad no brains blew out no heads plentyI'll prolly die after I Blow like Ted DemmeThere's no conspiracy, your bitch is a forced fitIn the telly yelling "Behold the pale horse dick"Fuck the Taliban, I'm back to Ballys, andKeep your little faggot brother off her Sally, manI can explain this "do not cross this line" in my brainFeds in the crib, but they're not finding the caneCause time in the game, New York is trifeMy boy T on the lamb like a fork and knifeThe corporate life, too fond of the blonde talkerSo I grew a beard and switched sides like John Walker
